


The last victim

by CharleyMeshle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative First Meeting, Badass John Watson, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, M/M, hinting at johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyMeshle/pseuds/CharleyMeshle
Summary: ...in which our beloved duo doesn't meet in a morgue, but over a serial killer.Sherlock Holmes is frustrated. Scotland Yard annoys him, and he just isn't getting any further in his latest case about serial suicides in London. And if he doesn't hurry, the killer, for of course it's murder, will strike again.John Watson's life is dull and meaningless. Unlike what his therapist thinks, London doesn't trigger his PTSD, but bores him to death. That is, until he get's into a cab and ends up at a table across a serial killer.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Strange_johnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/gifts).



> Hey beautiful people! 
> 
> I recently read Strange_johnlock 's prompt in their work "I request Johnlock" on an alternative meeting of our favourite detectives. And I thought it was a really cool idea, so here we are!  
> Plus, I think BBC didn't do John Watson justice at all.
> 
> So guys, gals and non binary pals, may I present to you:

Rush hour. The streets were packed with businesspeople and workers dashing to make the most of their lunchbrake. Cars honking, people hastening along the sidewalks, not sparing a glance left or right, just forward. Dust and early autumn leaves covering the streets.

Some pigeons were fighting over an abandoned mozzarella bagel on the pavement, before the next set of shoes sent them flying.

John sighed, lifting his gaze from the bustling people in front of the café he was sitting in. The usual, a perfectly normal day in this district of London. Probably any district, really. He sighed again, gulped down the last remains of his tea that had been cold for the last ten minutes before rummaging for some cash to leave for the tea and getting up, snatching up his crutch from the other chair.

Leaning heavily on it he navigated the crowds to get to the small park at the other end of the street, planning to take the quick stroll his therapist had ordered him to take every day and to go back to his flat, call it a day.

He really shouldn’t be surprised. Or upset, even. Everyone had told him adjusting back to civilian life would be hard and straining, that he might flinch at every loud sound, that he might have nightmares and trauma but that the everyday rhythm of London would eventually calm him, even him out, bring his brain down from the constant overdrive called war. That one day, he could forget the war and the city would stop overwhelming his senses.

But no one had said how incredibly dull it might be. Was that normal? Finding the sounds, the movements and the smell of the city not draining or triggering, but absolutely boring? John didn’t flinch from loud sounds, he instantly analyzed it for what it was, normally a car honk or an annoyed yell, deemed it harmless, and went on. Normally not even stopping to stare, because that’s just rude. Perhaps there was something wrong with him, John thought. Perhaps his behavior really did result from deep trauma, like his therapist said.

Stepping into his bare flat, honestly, there was a bed, a desk and a lamp for furniture, he just stood and stared, gaze finally resting on his few belongings on the table, including his old laptop. Maybe he’d try writing in his blog again today. Perhaps someone would be interested in how much exactly his tea had cost and how many pitying stares he attracted toady.

* * *

  
The microscope was dirty. Why was the microscope always dirty? Sherlock Holmes huffed frustratedly, turning to the other cellular samples and lenses on the other table, only to find Molly Hooper already snatching up the right lens and handing it to him with an eager but apologetic smile.

“I thought y-you might need it, the new lab assistant always forgets to polish the lighting. I-I'll tell him as soon as I see him.”

“Thank you. Although you won’t see him soon, your shift starts at one am. John Soward is done at six pm.” Sherlock murmured back, already focused on a new sample.

Molly slumped a little in the corner of his eye. She always did that. Obviously interested in a longer and deeper conversation.

Well, he wasn’t, why did she always try? Sherlock furrowed his brows in frustration, human interaction might be the only mystery he couldn’t crack. But Molly was a competent enough person, and kept quiet when he really needed her to.

But that was obviously not now.

"ListenIwaswondering-” Sherlock looked up. “You’re wearing lipstick. You weren’t wearing lipstick before.” He frowned.

“I-I refreshed it” A startled Molly answered. She was pleased, though. Why was she pleased? He really needed someone to translate these signs for him. “Sorry, you were saying?” He absently said.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.” Sherlock smiled. Finally, the girl was talking sensibly. “Black, two sugars thank you. I’ll be upstairs.”

And with that, he swept out of the door, leaving a frozen Molly Hooper behind. Mike Stamford was coming in a few minutes to pick up some papers, his car was already parked, and the cafeteria took three minutes to brew his terribly milky coffee. It would be rude to miss him.

Ah. Five past four when Mike opened the squeaky lab door.

“What took you, you usually turn up earlier.”

Mike gave him a resigned smile. “I’m not staying long either, Holmes. Gotta run, even braved London’s lunch break to get here instead of taking the park. Why, where you waiting?”

Sherlock smiled thinly, skipping the question and glancing over the microscope at the aging man shuffling through the marked exams he’d forgotten.

“Relax, your wife will be home later anyway, the crossing she passes is under construction. And you really should take a second look at those papers. Edwin Carter and Ben Williams both cheated off Susan Allans.”

Mike looked uncomfortable, already heading back to the door. “Thanks, Sherlock. I’ll look into it.” Then paused in the doorway. Sighed. Turned around. “You know Sherlock, finding a flatmate will be really hard if you keep on doing that to everyone you meet.”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. “Well, it’s who I am.” He snapped. He suddenly didn’t feel like working in the lab anymore, his own microscope was much better anyway. Sweeping up his coat and samples and sidestepping the shocked man, while plucking the mug of coffee Molly was just bringing in out of her hands with a quick smile, Sherlock turned down the hallway to return to his apartment.

He hadn’t missed the perhaps unintended meaning of Mike’s words. There was something wrong with him. His behavior was anormal. Everyone hated it. Sherlock scoffed. He knew this, of course. Always had.

But that didn’t make it better every time someone pushed it into his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo chapter one!
> 
> What do you think? Terrible? Ok? 
> 
> If you've got the time, I'd be thrilled if you leave a comment :)


	2. Chapter 2

John groaned. His leg was especially tiresome today.

He carefully placed it on the floor before getting up and going through the automatic motions of getting ready for the day. He had therapy tomorrow, not today. But he could take the laptop to another café and watch people again, maybe something more interesting would pop up than the yesterday’s tea, which he had decided really didn’t belong into the blog.

It had rained last night, so all the crisp colorful leaves had turned to a brown mush sticking to John’s shoes as he walked down the streets into a little café tucked away between apartment housings.

The scenery was a little different here. Less stressed. A mother with two twins jumping along the sidewalk. A tired looking man halfheartedly sticking out pamphlets from some massage place to by passers. A man quickly pacing along the road and almost colliding with the mother before apologizing. He seemed to be muttering to himself, too.

John sighed for about the hundredth time this week, weakly waving to the waitress for some coffee. The telly was on in the café, a muted woman narrating the news. Apparently there had been three deaths in the last few days, all apparent suicides.

“I ain’t believe it. That’s not a’ suicide, that a’ homocide. Killin’s.” The waitress said standing beside John’s chair, watching the telly while chewing some gum. “You think? Look like suicides to me. They took poison.” John replied. “All with the same poison? Nah, never. Someone’s feeding ‘em the stuff, I’m guess’n.” The waitress replied. “Anyway, watcha like for a’ drink?”

* * *

**Bzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzzzzz.**

Sherlock huffed. He ended Beethoven’s “Für Elise" on a particulary sharp note, carefully placed the violin on the chair and opened the nuisance ringing on the table.

Lestrade.

“Who died?” He coolly asked, already looking for his blazer.

“Well good morning to you too, Sherlock.” A tired voice sounded from the other end. To be fair to the detective inspector, it was seven am. And he was calling Sherlock.

“Yes yes, who died, Lestrade? And where?” “Remote apartment, I’m texting you the address. And we don’t know yet, but we might by the time you’re here.”

“ten minu- Who's on duty?” Sherlock suddenly stopped.

“Anderson. Sorry.” “I can’t work with Anderson.” “You’ll have to if you want the case, Sherlock.” “Hmpf. Fine. Be there in ten.”

And with that, Sherlock swept his scarf around his neck and exited the house.

“Hey Freak!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before straightening from where he was crouched over the pink clad body. “Donovan. How can I help you.”

She was standing in the doorway, distrustful sneer not leaving her face for a second. “Lestrade says it’s Anderson’s turn. Sod off.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Absolutely not. Anderson wouldn’t see a clue if it started biting him-”

“Well he’s the closest we have to a medical expert, Sherlock.” Lestrade appeared, bags under his eyes already growing more pronounced. He continued “Unless you have another talent for the human anatomy you’d like to share right about now...? No? Then let Anderson through, Holmes.”

“Fine.” Sherlock muttered.

Anderson’s sneer could rival Donovan’s as he passed the consulting detective and couched down to the body. Sherlock held back at least ten biting remarks.

“She obviously choked on something. Quite likely passed out from alcohol, she looks like she would. Not dead for over three hours. Murdered by-”

“Oh for God’s sake Anderson. For once, use whatever little remains of brain tissue you naturally must have!” Sherlock exploded, standing beside the man in two rapid steps.

“Definitely not alcohol, one can’t even smell a hint. Dead for over five hours minimum, even I with my limited,” here a pointed glance at Lestrade, “medical knowledge can see the fixture.”

Suddenly he pulled off his latex gloves with a snap and turned towards the doors. “I don’t need some halfwit’s amateur opinion, I need a _doctor_ , Lestrade!” He shouted, leaving Donovan and a young forensic scientist to hurry out of his way as he swept back onto the streets of London.

“Yep, you really do!” Anderson’s nasal voice called after Sherlock. Idiot. But it still struck something in him, what was going on lately? He hadn’t been this affected since middle school.

Three hours, one energetical violin piece with thrilled clapping sounding from Mrs. Hudson’s flat and lots of pacing later, Sherlock had found the missing suitcase, written a text to the killer and was waiting in Angelo’s for the killer to show up.

“Ahh, waiting for someone, Sherlock?” Angelo was standing beside his table while Sherlock’s eyes never left the house he ordered the killer to come to.

“Actually, yes.”

Angelo smiled and winked theatrically. “I’ll better get you a second table set, then.”

Sherlock turned, startled. “N-No, not like-” But Angelo was already gone. Sherlock scowled. Stupid of him to assume, he knew Sherlock well enough. Back to watching the house, then.

* * *

“So John, how’s the blog going.”

John sighed. She always asked the same questions. “Fine. Haven’t written anything yet, but fine.”

Now it was his therapist’s turn to sigh. “John,” she started, “We can’t work past your trauma if there isn’t something to occupy you, to filter through all the sounds of the streets that trigger you. There is no such thing as a bad blog post. It’s yours, remember.”

John shifted uncomfortably, hand shooting out to catch his crutch out of reflex, firmly catching it before it slipped off the chair. She never got it. He didn’t need filtering, he needed _more._

“Anna, is it- I mean, should it-” he stuttered, before stopping.

“Take your time, John.” his therapist said expectantly. He took a deep breath.

“Anna, I’m _bored._ I see nothing that interests me anymore, nothing keeps my attention for long. The war was terrible, yes, but this isn’t...” He stopped, unsure. The psychologist frowned, shuffling through the notes on her lap. “Well, it isn’t unusual for war veterans to feel unincluded for a while. Perhaps even outcasted. But that will pass.”

She finally looked up at him, smiling. “Don’t worry, John. It’ll soon go back to normal, you’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Criticism and suggestions always welcome :)
> 
> Ps: Sherlock made an appearance in one of John's POVs here. Who spotted him? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer chapter, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Btw, if you'd like me to wright a fic on your prompt or a specific scene or setting, just let me know! If the prompt is interesting and inspiration hits me, I'll be glad to gift you a plot of your own :)

Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._

Sherlock scowled all the way back to Baker Street, rapidly pacing along the sidewalk and causing more than one person to hastily pull their child or dog out of his way. The cabbie driver who’d driven him this far hadn’t said a word either.

It had been the wrong cab. Or the wrong person. Or the wrong deduction, frankly. But it didn’t make sense, it had been the only car to stand in front of the house for longer than three seconds! Unless a pedestrian... no, too obvious to stare at a building for several seconds. The murderer was clever this far, they would not fall to such error now.

Escaping the cold wind, Sherlock jumped into 221 Baker Street and briskly tore off his scarf, handing it to a loitering Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock, there-”

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock snapped, already jumping up the stairs towards his flat and the remaining evidence.

He never reaches the evidence.

“A drug bust? _Now?”_ Sherlock stood frozen in his doorway. “Only way to get to the evidence you’re hording here, Sherlock.” Lestrade said, not even looking up from where he was ruffling through the pink suitcase. “You realize you’re just encouraging Donovan’s theory about you being the murderer?”

But before Sherlock could debunk that stupid claim, Anderson stepped around his boss, waving his Persian slipper in Sherlock’s face.

“Oh Sherlock, the drugs in a shoe? That was too easy.” He smirked.

“Get lost, Anderson!” Sherlock snapped again, pushing him aside to finally step into his own apartment. Lestrade finally finished searching the suitcase and stepped back to let Sherlock resume his pacing. “Now, what have you got?” He expectantly asked.

“Nothing. The lead was wrong. I was wrong. They should have come to that house, I’m sure of it. They got the text. Never replied.” Sherlock was almost running now. It was there, it was almost there, he almost had it-

“Everybody stop. Now. Anderson, shut up and turn around.”

“Now, Anderson!” Lestrade added when Anderson started to protest. But Sherlock didn’t hear him.

The cabbie that had stopped had been the only one around. No one else. And the passenger had been innocent, the driver had just-

He froze.

“Oh. _Oh my-”_

* * *

It was already dark when John finally stepped out of his therapist’s sticky treatment room and on to the streets of a nighttime London.

Of course, that didn’t make the streets less packed, everyone was trying to get home as fast as possible from work and to the pubs. John groaned, he would never make it through the crowd without his leg being kicked at least twice.

Slowly, he hobbled towards the edge of the sidewalk. “Taxi, Taxi!”

A typical black cab pulled up. “Need a’ lift, sir?” A cockney accent sounded from the driver’s seat.

“Obviously.” John breathed, but getting in all he said was “Yes, thank you.”

The driver pulled away. They sat in silence for a minute.

“Afghanistan o’ Irak?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

The cabbie smiled, and for the first time John gave him a proper look. He looked a very regular chubby, older man with a mustache, terrible choice of jumper and glasses.

But the eyes behind those glasses. They weren’t regular at all. John had seen those eyes before in Afghanistan, in young soldiers who were send straight into high risk missions because of that look, or old generals without mercy.

The insane look of a man without _any_ boundaries at all. The desire to kill.

The only way to survive that look was if you were on the same side. Or seemed that way. Or to run, but that wasn’t an option. Even if he could get out of the cabbie, a man like that couldn’t stay loose in a metropolis. John probably was the only one who'd recognise him for what he was.

So John stayed calm, and played the game.

“Afghanistan. How’d you know?”

The cabbie smiled again, glancing at John from the corner of his eye. “Just know.”

More silence. John was pretty sure they weren’t anywhere close to his apartment, if the dark warehouses were anything to go by.

John cleared his throat. “Now, that’s not an answer.” He said.

The cabbie seemed confused for a second. “Answer to what?”

“Afghanistan. How did you find out? Broke into my medical records?”

The cabbie chuckled. “Nah, nothin’ like that. Don’t even know your name. But ma son was in Irak, came back with a similar limp and gaze like you, sir. Like he’d seen everything.”

“Huh.” John murmured. He tried to recognize anything flashing by the window, but he’d never been to this part of London.

“Now, what’s your name, sir?”

“John.”

“Just John?”

“Just John.”

“Well John,” the cabbie started, “Would you call yourself an intelligent man?”

John didn’t move. “Average, really.”

The cabbie chuckled. “No John, you’re not average. An average man would find the city tiring, after a’ while.

But I saw you move through the crowd. For you, London’s a battlefield. And all these people are simply standing on it, unaware of the danger they’re in. Like clueless pray.”

He turned to his seat neighbor. “We’re alike more than you think.”

John still wasn’t moving, but his hand slowly crept to his jacket’s pocket. He’d left the gun in the apartment, dammit.

“I don’t think we’re very alike. For one, I don’t kidnap people.”

For they had stopped, in front of two very identical big buildings, probably a school.

The cabbie chuckled again.

“Ah, John, come on now. I understand you. Every day, ye walk along the streets and know exactly what’s goin’ to happen. Who’s going to trip because they’re focused on their phone, who’s a threat and who isn’. You pro’ably knew what I was the second you got into the cabbie. People would think you’re a freak if you’d tell ‘em that. That you miss the war, the blood. The hunt.”

“I- I don’t miss the war.” John couldn’t suppress the slight stutter. The killer hit a little too close to home.

People would never like him, accept him, if he told them what he really yearned for.

But John didn’t miss the war as a hunt. He missed the adrenaline, the danger of split-second decisions. Of risking his life for something he was dedicated to, like grabbing a wounded soldier off no-man’s land or firing at landmines. His shots were bullseye, every time. He was an addict, and John didn’t know if it made him a terrible person.

It probably did.

But the cabbie seemed to have enough. “Course you do. Now, get out and into that house there, now.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, the last chapter!!
> 
> Fine, I'm probably being a bit too dramatic over a 4000+ words fic ;)
> 
> As always, I'd be thrilled if you'd drop your opinion on this in the comments, I'm always looking to improve my stuff here.
> 
> Longest chapter. Trigger warning: a man dies. If you wanna skip that, jump the next 6 lines after "A low voice said."  
> Stay safe <3

Suddenly he was sticking a gun into John’s face. It was very dark, and John really couldn’t tell what kind of gun it was, so he had no other option than to comply. His crutch lay forgotten on the backseat.

They walked up some steps, down some hallways, until the cabbie sat him down at a table.

A school bench, his hunch had been correct. The cabbie leered at him.

“Now John, look at it this way: I’ve got a good pill an’ a bad pill. I’ll take the other one.

If you get the bad pill, no one ‘ll ever bother you again, no one’ll tell you how to feel o’ how to behave. It would be your last and greatest excitement.

If you get the good pill, the thrill still remains, you just survived suicide and can hand the police a dead serial killa. Win-win, really.” The man smiled again, leaning back in his seat.

“You decide.”

John leaned back as well. He idly noticed his left hand had never been steadier.

“Yes. Yes I should.” He mused. “Give me a moment, will you?” “Of course.” The cabbie smirked.

A moment passed.

“You see,” John started, “You are quite right. In almost all aspects. I was in Afghanistan, I got shot, and different from most veterans I find the city unbearably boring. Although I couldn’t be anywhere else. That was quite clever of you, and all of it from your own experience and your son’s.”

The cabbie was still smirking, but a maniacal gleam had entered his eyes. “Why thank you. Most don’ see it.”

“Hmm. You close with that son?”

“Haven’t seen ‘im in years.”

“Oh, I know. Because he could’ve told you directly not to mess with a military doctor.”

Suddenly John launched himself at the cabbie.

He knocked the fake gun from his hands and tried to disable him in three quick steps: Take fake gun, leave defenseless, leave unconscious.

The first worked perfectly, but the cabbie kicked the gun away before John could reach it. And it seemed the cabbie had some sort of training himself.

The skirmish was fast and brutal.

John delivered a blow, it was wonderfully aimed to break the man’s dominant hands wrist and leave him sprawling on the table, knocked unconscious by the impact. But the murderer dodged, John only grazed him. Suddenly the cabbie was pulling out something from his pocket, something shiny-

“If I were you, I’d drop that immediately.” A low voice said.

John was still breathing heavily, but through the adrenaline clad haze he could very clearly see a man in the doorway. An exceptionally handsome man. With ice cold eyes, and a gun pointing at the cabbie.

The cabbie froze. John froze. Because whoever this man was, he wasn’t letting his guard down this fast.

Suddenly the cabbie sneered. “Mister Holmes. I’ve been waiting for you. Bu’ I can’t let this man go unpunished.”

John suddenly saw a knife in the man’s hand, it was flashing towards him and he couldn’t move with the table at his back, he panicked, this wasn’t the way he wanted to die after surviving bloody Afghanistan-

When suddenly there was a bang. The serial killer’s eyes were wide as he instantly collapsed at John’s feet and didn’t move anymore.

John looked up. The mysterious stranger was standing in front of him, now slowly lowering the gun. His deeply blue eyes were scanning John’s face. As if gauging his reaction to the shot.

“Thanks.” John rasped.

“Not a problem. Where is the poison?” The stranger’s voice sounded again. God, if John weren’t absolutely straight, he could have thought that voice infinitely sexy.

Which he didn’t. At all.

“On the table.” He grabbed the two bottles and handed them to the man. But as the stranger tried to snatch them up from his palm, John curled his fingers around them.

“Who are you. The cabbie called you Holmes.” He needed answers, and right now.

Somehow, the stranger smirk-smiled, and pulled back his hand.

“Well, it _is_ my name. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And you are John Watson.”

****

John was leaning against a police car when the stranger- no, _Mr. Holmes,_ sidled down beside him.

There were sirens and frantic police everywhere, although a pretty cool but stressed man called Lestrade had taken the time to bring him a stress towel after taking up his statement for protocol. Not that he needed one, he’d seen a body before.

“How did you survive.” Mr. Holmes asked, handing John a coffee he gratefully took.

“Hmm?”

The man snorted, now turning to scrutinize John’s face again.

“Everyone died. He talked all of them into taking a pill. But not you. Tell me John Watson, what did you do?”

“The gun was a fake. That’s it. I had the fifty-fifty chance of taking the wrong pill, or a much higher chance against a fake gun. Although I didn’t see the knife coming.” John replied.

He looked up at the man, properly now, not through an adrenaline haze or over the barrel of a gun.

Holmes had the softest black curls and cheekbones to cut through glass. But his eyes were remarkable, deep blue, constantly analyzing.

John cleared his throat. “How did you know my name? When I asked who you were?”

Holmes smiled thinly. “That was easy. Engraved in the crutch I found on the backseat, which you are clutching now. The crutch was left behind and you fought a man without limping, but you need it now, so it’s psychosomatic. Your stance, the limp, your haircut is military, and your tan tells me you were overseas for quite a while recently. And of course, you recognized the gun and fought the murderer military style. So, soldier. But your accent is deeply engrained British, so you’re born around here. Probably more to the east.”

John gaped. The man turned away, and John thought he saw the slightest tension in his shoulders, as if he was bracing himself for something.

“That was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant.”

Mr. Holmes turned to him abruptly, with a look of amazement on his face himself. “You think?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

The man shrugged. “Piss off.”

That made John laugh out loud for the first time in a long while.

Holmes stared at him, like a cat at a mouse which wasn’t exactly running away. Eventually he said: “I usually don’t get everything right. There’s usually a mistake. Are you sure I got it right?”

John sipped his coffee. “Well,” he started, “My limp does seem to be psychosomatic. Not that I noticed until today, but I did forget the crutch in the cab. I was in Afghanistan. I was a soldier, of sorts. And I was born in Chelmsford.”

But the Holmes guy frowned. “What do you mean, a soldier of sorts?”

John grinned. “Military doctor. Studied medicine at Bart’s.”

“A doctor! Of course! So obvious, the precise hits to his weak spots. Should’ve seen it.” Holmes growled. But then he stilled again, a sly look entering his eyes.

“What? What else can you see?” John asked, frowning at the tall man.

“Deduct, Doctor Watson. Or observe, if you prefer. Everyone can see.”

“So?”

“You don’t need the crutch anymore, but your left hand is shaking. It was perfectly still in the fight. And you only started panicking when there was no way of escaping the knife, not a moment before, although you had been sitting in a room with a serial killer, _talking_ , for about thirty minutes.”

“Oh.” John murmured. It dawned on him were this was going. The cabbie had said very similar things.

“I found a blog called John Watson. It’s empty. Probably a therapist’s assignment.”

“What are you concluding, Mr. Holmes?” John sighed.

“You miss it. You miss the action, the adrenaline. You have high moral standards judging by how none of your blows would have instantly killed the man, so you don’t miss the bloodshed and lost boundaries as some veterans do. But you miss the danger.”

John sighed again and threw the coffee cup into a nearby bin. “You probably think me a terrible person now.”

A pause.

“No.”

John looked up in shock at the unusually soft voice beside him. The man was staring forward, very determinedly not looking at John.

“I’m the same.”

The soft voice said again. And if John had known how very seldom Sherlock Holmes spoke like this, he would have committed it to memory.

Suddenly Mr. Holmes turned around to look John in the eye. “You cannot be living very big on an army pension.”

A bit startled by this turn of the conversation, John chuckled ruefully.

“Nope. Got a tiny apartment at the outskirts of London, but I’d much rather live in town.”

“You object to a flat mate?”

“N-No.” John stuttered. These piercing blue eyes were a little unsettling.

“Then it is settled. I’ve got my eye on a very nice flat in Westminster. I’ll see you there at two pm tomorrow.”

The man got up, actually _winked_ at John, and turned to leave.

“Hold on a second!” John called, slightly furious. Mr. Holmes stopped.

“We’ve known each other for about ten minutes, met over a serial killer, and while you seem to know everything about me, I don’t know a thing about you! I don’t even know the address we’re visiting!”

Holmes swept around (that was a dramatic coat, by the way), and John thought he could see a tiny smile on the man’s face in the blue light of the police cars.

“I am perfectly sure we’re compatible, Doctor Watson. My deductions say so. And what you don’t know about me already you’ll find out pretty soon, you’re less stupid than most others.”

Now, John really was sure he could see a small smile behind those guarded eyes. Well, you gotta take a risk in life, he thought.

“Huh. John then. Not Doctor Watson. Potential flat mates should be on first name basis.”

The man smirked. A dangerous smirk, as if he was already envisioning all the mischief they’d get up to together. Oddly, John didn’t mind at all.

“Nice to meet you, John. Call me Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, ladies and gentlemen and everyone in-between. 
> 
> I hope you liked my take on the Pink Lady. I really enjoyed it. So much actually, that I'm contemplating carrying it on for a little, bring in Lestrade and Molly more, delve into a few more scenarios like undercover work, parties and cases. Bring in Irene Adler...  
> I could bring in lots of scenarios or characters you want to see, if you'd like to drop a prompt!
> 
> So if you'd like a little more, let me know. I'll only do it if I know someone's there to enjoy it ;)
> 
> Stay safe and healthy y'all <3


End file.
